Solace
by lostinafictionalworld
Summary: "Thomas? What are you doing here?" "I brought you a book," Thomas said simply, as if that were all the explanation necessary as to why a lord was asleep in the dingy sitting room of a rooming house so late at night. James comes home to his sad, tiny flat late one night after a fight and is surprised by visit from Thomas. Fluff and feelings ensue.


It was raining hard and the sky had long since grown dark by the time James reached the tiny rooming house where he was staying. He was soaked and shivering but at least the cold helped numb the aches blooming across his body. It took several attempts to get the door open, his fingers clumsy and stiff with cold, but he finally managed it and stumbled into the front entryway. The house was dark, the other residents long since asleep. He trudged past the doorway to the sitting room and started up the stairs toward his room, already struggling out of his sodden coat as he went.

He stopped halfway up the stairs, then retraced his steps to the sitting room and peered through the doorway. The lamp had burned itself out, but by the flickering light of the fire James could make out the shape of a man sleeping in an armchair by the hearth, an open book on his lap.

"Thomas?"

"Hmm?" The man in question startled awake and looked blearily around the room before catching sight of James in the doorway. "James! You're back!" He rubbed his eyes sleepily and gave James a warm smile as he approached.

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought you a book," Thomas said simply, as if that were all the explanation necessary as to why a lord was asleep in the dingy sitting room of a rooming house so late at night. When James still looked disconcerted he elaborated.

"I told your landlady we had important business to discuss and she said I could wait here until you returned. She was even kind enough to light a fire for me. Although it appears I accidentally dozed off while waiting." He yawned expansively and stretched.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," James said earnestly, mentally berating himself for his delayed return and bedraggled appearance. "I hadn't intended to stay out so late. What is it that you wanted to discuss?"

"Don't worry yourself. It's my own fault for showing up unannounced," Thomas reassured him gently. "I just wanted to see you is all."

"Really?" James asked tentatively. This relationship growing between them was still new and James was still finding his footing. He knew Thomas cared for him but he had never imagined that he would drive all the way across town on a whim and wait who knows how long just to see him.

"Really." Thomas stood and took his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. He gave a startled flinch at the touch of James's icy fingers.

"You're frozen!" he exclaimed worriedly. He grabbed at the sodden coat draped over James's arm. "Christ, James, you're soaked through! Let's get you upstairs and into something dry." Before James could protest, Thomas had him by the arm and was steering him hurriedly towards the stairs.

James carefully led the way through the darkened house, making an effort to stay as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the sleeping inhabitants, and finally ushered Thomas into his tiny room. He found the candle on the mantle by touch and finally managed to light it, filling the room with wobbly shadows.

Thomas had been here before, a number of times in fact, but James still felt the small flare of discomfort he always felt seeing him in this dingy room with it's cracked plaster and sloped ceiling and draughty windows. It wasn't that Thomas judged him for his humble living conditions—he had assured James of the contrary more than once—but James couldn't dispel the feeling that someone like Thomas didn't belong in a place like this. Someone so kind and good deserved warmth and light and comfort. James hurried to light the lamp on the desk and tried to drive away the thought along with the shadows.

As soon as there was light to see by, Thomas was rummaging through James's wardrobe, looking for something warm and dry for him to wear. "James, dear, why don't you get out of those wet things?" he suggested, moving from the wardrobe to trunk at the foot of the bed to continue his search. "You must be freezing. And how about a fire? It's rather chilly in here."

After a minute of searching, he straightened up triumphantly with a long white nightshirt, a pair of breeches, and a spectacularly hideous but warm-looking pair of woolen socks. But his satisfied smile faded as he turned back towards James.

"James, your face!" he exclaimed. "What happened? Why didn't you say anything?" James turned away, but he knew Thomas had seen his split lip and the small cut across his left cheekbone.

"It's nothing worth fussing over." James hedged, sitting down heavily in the desk chair. His ribs ached in protest as he bent over to struggle with his boots.

"Nonsense," Thomas insisted, setting the clothes aside and coming to kneel in front of James. "You've clearly been in a fight." He looked pointedly at James's scraped knuckles as he batted his hands aside and firmly pulled off one of his boots.

"Honestly, it's nothing," James protested more sharply than he intended. "The other man got off much worse. Don't worry about it." He sighed. He had planned to come home and tend his wounds in private so Thomas would never have to know the fight had happened.

"Saying that won't make me worry less," Thomas pointed out gently. "But this conversation can wait until you're not in imminent danger of catching cold. Now will you please put on something dry?" He tugged off the other boot and pulled James to his feet. He looked at James expectantly until he finally sighed and started to undress.

It took a few moments to struggling to get the damp fabric of his stock untied and to undo the buttons at his cuffs, but he finally managed it. He didn't miss Thomas's concerned face as he pulled off his sodden shirt, revealing the purplish bruises spreading across his torso, but thankfully he stayed silent.

Seeming satisfied that James was capable of getting himself dry, Thomas turned his attention to the cold fireplace.

"Where do you keep your coal?" he asked briskly. James sighed, knowing there was no way to avoid this conversation.

"There isn't any."

"What?" Thomas turned to look at him again.

"There isn't any," he repeated tiredly. "Not much anyway. It's quite expensive so I save it for when the weather's cold."

"It's cold now!" Thomas pointed out, aghast.

"It's not so bad," James shrugged self-consciously. "It can get cold at sea so I suppose I'm just used to it." He turned away so he didn't have to see Thomas's crestfallen face and started pulling on the blessedly dry clothes.

A trickle of water from his bedraggled hair ran down the back of his neck and he shivered. He grabbed the hand towel off the washstand to dry it, but couldn't untangle the sodden ribbon holding his queue in place. He tugged at it frustratedly, but only managed to tighten the knot.

"Here, let me," Thomas said, his voice soft. He came to stand behind James and carefully worked the ribbon free. Setting it aside on the desk, he took the towel from James and started pressing the water from his hair.

"I'd forgotten how difficult it can be at first," Thomas said after a long moment, "having someone care."

James turned sharply to look at him, startled by the comment. He didn't like the thought of Thomas feeling uncared for. Thomas gave him a small smile before gently turning his head away again and continuing to towel his hair as he spoke.

"Growing up, my father was— Well, you've met the man. I'm sure it's not terribly difficult to believe that he's never been a particularly affectionate or attentive parent. My mother died when I was small. I hardly remember her. And there was my brother, but we've never been particularly close.

"But then Miranda came into my life. Kind, passionate, brilliant Miranda, who loves so wholly and shamelessly and vibrantly. And it was so wonderful and overwhelming and _terrifying_ to suddenly feel cared for.

"Because it can be terrifying to have someone care for you and to care for them in return, especially when you're unused to it. Attention can feel like scrutiny. Affection can feel undeserved. Trust can feel like vulnerability. Desire can feel like shame. And suddenly the stakes are so much higher, because if you let someone close, let someone in, you could worry them or disappoint them or hurt them or lose them. And they can do the same to you.

"But then one day you find yourself wondering how you ever could have shied away from those feelings because in the end you just want that person to be happy, because they make you happy, and your life is brighter for knowing them. And that's love. And there's nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be ashamed of in that." Thomas turned James to face him once more and kissed him gently on the forehead.

"I just want you to be happy," he said softly. James found himself at a loss for words so he merely put his arms around Thomas's waist, drawing him close and burying his face in the crook of his neck to hide the moisture that had sprung up in his eyes.

Thomas drew back after several long moments and pressed another kiss to the top of his head.

"You still feel cold," he said softly. "Let's get you warmed up a bit more." He pulled the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it carefully around James's shoulders.

"Now let's go back downstairs for a bit." Thomas rummaged around the desk, collecting the lamp, and started towards the door.

"Downstairs?" James asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Whatever for?"

"It's much warmer in the sitting room. We'll go sit by the fire until you've thawed a bit."

"Like this?" James protested, gesturing at his sleep clothes and blanket. "What if someone sees us?"

"James," Thomas pointed out fondly, "it's the middle of the night. Anyone who might see us has been asleep for hours. We'll be fine." James was still dubious but he let Thomas loop an arm around his waist and lead him out into the hallway.

Once back in the sitting room, Thomas set the lamp aside and grabbed a cushion from one of the chairs to set on the floor in front of the hearth. He settled James comfortably atop it and drew up an armchair behind him.

"And now some tea, I think," Thomas announced.

"Tea?" James repeated skeptically.

"Yes, tea. There's nothing like a nice cup of tea to warm you up."

"And I suppose you'll just ring for some?" James asked drily. "I seem to recall you pointing out that everyone was asleep. Not that my dear landlady would deign to make you any even if she were awake."

"I'll make it."

James quirked an eyebrow.

"I may be a pampered little lord," Thomas said defensively, "but I think I'm quite capable of managing tea."

"I'll get it," James said, unwrapping the blanket from his shoulders and starting to rise. "It's fine."

"No," Thomas insisted stubbornly, grabbing James by the shoulders so he couldn't stand up. "That would defeat the entire purpose of this exercise. You're going to stay here where it's warm."

"And the fire you'll be using to heat the tea won't be warm?" James asked skeptically. Though he did wonder if Thomas realized the cook fire had already been banked for the night and would have to be stoked again to be of any use. Thomas just gave a put upon sigh.

"Will you just stay here and let me do this?" He asked tiredly, draping the blanket back around James's shoulders. "Please?"

"If you're sure," James conceded with a small smile. "Tea is in the tin at the far left end of the counter and cups are in the second cupboard from the right. Mind the handle on the kettle. It's a bit wobbly."

Thomas grinned triumphantly and hurried off to the kitchen before James could change his mind, taking the lamp with him to light the way.

James settled back against the armchair behind him and let his eyes drift shut. The heat from the fire slowly seeped into his bones and he gradually relaxed as he finally started to warm up.

He was glad of the moment alone to think a bit about what Thomas had said. He had been right; James was unused to feeling cared for. His parents had died when he young, his grandfather when he was not much older. He had known Hennessy longer than any of his blood relations, ever since James had signed on as a ship boy when he was eleven, but even their relationship had always been constrained by the bounds of rank and propriety.

But then Thomas and Miranda had welcomed him into their lives, the two of them so much kinder to him than he had any right to expect or deserve. He had been so uncertain at first, had felt so guilty, especially when he started seeing Miranda; he truly enjoyed his time with them but everything he had ever learned had been screaming at him that what he was doing was wrong. He shouldn't be endangering Miranda's reputation. He shouldn't be betraying Thomas. He shouldn't be wanting Thomas. It was all wrong.

But then Thomas had kissed him that night after the disastrous dinner and it was like all the pieces of his heart had fallen into place and the whole world suddenly made sense. How could this much happiness be wrong? James had lived more of his life at sea than on land, his life ever-changing, but it was as if Thomas and Miranda had given him something solid to lean on. They felt like home.

James didn't know how long Thomas had been gone but he must have dozed off because suddenly Thomas was gently shaking him awake.

"Tea!" he announced brightly, placing a steaming cup in James's hands. James took a tentative sip and hummed appreciatively.

"Indeed you are capable of making tea," he said with a smile. "My apologies."

As James sipped his tea, Thomas produced a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth and settled on the floor next to him. He soaked the rag and carefully dabbed at the cut on his cheek. It stung and James resisted the urge to flinch away. The cut was barely more than a scratch and had long since stopped bleeding, but he sat patiently and let Thomas fuss over him without complaint. He would be lying if he said he didn't appreciate the gentle attention.

Thomas finished cleaning James's cheek and tugged his right hand away from the teacup to clean his scraped up knuckles. James continued to drink his tea with his free hand, lingering over it so Thomas wouldn't expect him to speak. But he was delaying the inevitable; he knew he would have to explain about the fight eventually.

"There," Thomas announced, setting the rag aside. "Better."

"Thank you," James said softly. He finished off his tea and set his cup aside as well.

"How do you feel?" Thomas asked seriously, and James now knew better than to try to brush his concern aside.

"A bit sore, but the warmth is helping."

"Should I check your ribs?"

"They're a bit bruised but nothing's broken. I've had enough injuries in my life to know the difference. There'll be no lasting damage."

"Good."

"Thomas," James began, knowing he should just get it over with, "about the fight—"

"You don't have to tell me," Thomas interrupted. "I was just worried before, and still am, but I realize that your business is your own to share with whom you will. Just know that I will always hear whatever you have to say if you choose to tell me."

He took James's injured hand in his own again and softly kissed the scraped knuckles. Then he gently cupped his face in his hands and leaned forward to place a feather-light kiss on his cut cheek, and finally his split lip. James made a soft sound and leaned into the kiss. He didn't know what he'd done in his life to deserve someone like Thomas.

After several long moments, Thomas drew back just enough to break the kiss, his forehead resting lightly against James's.

"You needn't tell me anything," he repeated lightly, his thumb stroking gently over James's jaw, "but I will insist you sit here and let me brush your hair."

"What?" James laughed softly, leaning back to look at Thomas's face and see if he was joking. "You want to brush my hair?"

"I do," Thomas answered seriously. "Miranda enjoys it when I brush her hair. She says she finds it relaxing and I thought you might as well. Now sit nicely and let me do this." He pulled himself off the floor and settled into the armchair so James was leaning back against his knees.

"Besides," Thomas teased, somehow producing James's hairbrush from the pocket of his jacket, "you have such lovely hair. It deserves to have all manner of care and attention lavished on it."

"Does it now?" James snorted inelegantly. "I never would have thought something as trivial as my hair would deserve such notice."

"It's quite magnificent," Thomas assured him, struggling to keep his tone serious. "It's definitely one of your finer qualities. That and your freckles. Now stop laughing and sit still so I can do this."

James made no effort to stifle his mirth but did his best to stay still as Thomas began to carefully draw the brush through his hair. It felt nice, he realized after a few moments, the repetitive brush of the soft bristles over his scalp and the gentle stroke of Thomas's fingers as they carded through the damp strands of his hair. It was a soothing, simple comfort. He could understand now why Miranda enjoyed it.

"It was a fight," he said quietly after several long minutes. "My injuries. You were right."

"You don't have to say anything."

"I want to. You deserve to know. I just didn't want to worry you." James paused for a moment to choose his words.

"It happened down at the docks. A ship returned today from the Bahama Islands and I wanted to hear what news the captain had from Nassau. We talked longer than I had anticipated and it was dark by the time I was leaving. I bumped into a group of midshipmen, one of whom had also been up for my lieutenant's commission. He recognized me and offered up few choice insults. I lost my temper and hit him. Fortunately his companions managed to separate us before either of us did any serious damage."

"That doesn't sound like you," Thomas noted curiously. "I know you have a bit of a temper but I have a hard time imaging you losing control of it over something as trivial as an insult." James sighed.

"The animosity isn't new. Throughout my career in the navy, there have always been those who have viewed my rise through the ranks unfavorably. After all, I'm just the son of a common carpenter's mate. Who am I to be elevated to a position in which I have authority over sons of lords? They view my advancement as a bid to become more than I am. I'm used to the digs and thinly veiled insults by now; I've been dealing with them for years. I had my fair share of fights when I was younger, but it didn't take long to figure out that fighting would get me nowhere and wouldn't improve what people thought of me."

"So what did the man say that managed to upset you?"

"I'm sure you can imagine," James continued hesitantly, "that since I received this posting, there has been particular resentment towards me from other officers who deemed themselves more suitable for the position than I. They know I won't respond to personal attacks, but now, despite my best efforts at discretion, rumor has spread of my involvement with Miranda. And thanks to your father's efforts I would assume, I'm starting to hear whispers of our pardons plan circulating amongst some of the more prominent officers. So now what began as harmless insults against me have escalated to attacks against you and Miranda, and I cannot just stand by and let such remarks pass without response." James tensed as Thomas stopped brushing his hair and set the brush aside.

"You got in a fight," Thomas asked slowly, "because someone insulted Miranda and me?"

"Yes," James said quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Why?"

"Because I meant what I said that night," he said resolutely, turning to look up at Thomas. "After that dinner. I meant it. You're a good man. You and Miranda are both good people. And that is a fact in intend to defend."

"Oh, James." Thomas cupped James's face with one hand, his thumb tracing lightly over the cut on his cheek. "That means more to me than you could possibly realize. Truly. But it's not worth you getting hurt over."

"It's only a couple of bruises," James insisted. "It's not even as bad as last time. It's worth it to me."

"Be that as it may, I still— Wait a moment. Last time? You mean this has happened before?" James froze. He most certainly hadn't intended to mention that.

"Just one other time." He looked away again.

"And when was this?"

"About a week after we met," he admitted ruefully. "I was at a tavern with Admiral Hennessey. Talking about you, actually. He left for two minutes, someone insulted Miranda, and I started a fight in a taproom full of officers. Hennessey himself had to break it up." Thomas gave an incredulous laugh.

"You're not angry?" James asked, surprised at the reaction.

"I'm not angry," Thomas reassured him. "But I do wish you wouldn't do it again. People have been whispering about Miranda and me for years, and just like fighting will not change what people say about you, it will not change what they say about us either. I don't care about what people say. I care about you. Your wellbeing is far more important to me than my reputation could ever be." He pressed a kiss to the top of James's head and started running his fingers through his hair again.

"So, fighting in our defense after only a week," Thomas teased lightly. "You really were quite smitten, weren't you?" James blushed.

"At the time I thought I was just being honorable," he mumbled defensively.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed," Thomas laughed. "I was utterly smitten the day we met. And I was so distracted I fear I wasn't even subtle about it." James chucked quietly and the two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, Thomas's fingers still carding softly through his hair.

"Time for bed I think," Thomas said after James had yawned for the third time in as many minutes. "I think you've warmed up enough." His hair had finally dried and was hanging in coppery waves around his face and sleep was creeping up on him.

"Does that mean you're leaving?" James didn't even try to hide his disappointment. Thomas stood and pulled him to his feet.

"At this hour? In this weather?" Thomas replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "It's far too late for that. It would appear you're stuck with me." He led James upstairs and into his room once more.

"Won't Miranda worry?" James asked as Thomas steered him towards the bed and draped the coverlet back over it as he climbed in. Thomas shook his head and started undressing.

"She knew that I was coming to see you and that there was a good chance I'd stay the night. She asked me to give you this," Thomas leaned down to give him a playful peck on the lips, "and to inform you that you're coming over for dinner tomorrow and she won't take no for an answer."

James was suddenly filled with a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the coziness of his bed. He had no idea how he had been lucky enough to have two such wonderful people in his life.

Thomas finished undressing until his was just in his long white shirt and climbed into bed next to him. James immediately turned towards him and curled up against his chest. Thomas draped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer.

"What book is it?" James asked sleepily, his nose brushing lightly against Thomas's collarbone.

"Hmm?"

"Earlier you said you brought me a book."

"Oh." Thomas smiled, glancing over at the red leather bound book he had left on the desk earlier. "It's a particular favorite of mine. I'll show it to you in the morning. Sleep now, my love."

He blew out the lamp, pressed a kiss to James's forehead, and they slept.

* * *

 **A/N:** So this is kinda all over the place and probably a bit out of character, but I just want them to be soft and happy so I don't even care. I have no idea what the actual timeline is for the flashbacks so this is just supposed to be sometime between the dinner and James's three-month trip to Nassau. *shrugs* Thanks for reading!


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